


Myc, Where's My Dog?

by MeriwetherLeww



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Kidlock, Other, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeriwetherLeww/pseuds/MeriwetherLeww
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, who is about six years old at this time, comes home from school and isn't able to find his dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myc, Where's My Dog?

Backpack on back, Sherlock climbed hurriedly off the bus from school.  His left shoe was untied, and he stepped on it on more then one occasion while walking from the bus stop to the front door home.  Some of his curly black locks fell onto his forehead as he hopped towards the door. 

Upon entering, he set his bag down on the indoor front porch and pulled out a small peanut butter cookie from his bag; he had gotten it from school.  He slipped it into his coat pocket and went to tie his shoe.  "Cross, under, tighten," he mumbled to himself, "loop, pull, double knot."  He always repeated the steps while tying his shoes.  He galloped inside, calling, "Redbeard!" 

He did his best to whistle, but it came out more as a rough blow of hot air with bits of spit.  The dog did not come running, as he usually did.  Sherlock assumed he was out in the backyard.  He ran to the dining room, passing his brother, who looked deep in thought.  He looked out the window, trying to find the dog.  He saw an empty backyard.  "Myc!" he called, coming back into the living room, "where's Redbeard?  Has he been fed yet this afternoon?"  He lifted up the red bowl with gold letters labeled "Redbeard" and began to fill it up with the usual dog food.  Mycroft didn't say anything.

"Redbeard!" he made another attempt to whistle, and again got a trail of saliva dripping down his chin.  He wiped it on his sleeve.  "Is he downstairs?" he tried asking his brother again.  Assuming he was in one of his moods, he went down into the basement, calling, "Redbeard!  C'mon, boy, you hungry?"  He looked through the basement, and not finding the dog, he went back upstairs.  He was beginning to get angry.

"Myc!  Where's Redbeard?" he asked his brother again, who stared at his younger brother with a worried and sad gaze.  Sherlock could tell something was wrong.   

"Sher, why don't you sit down?" Mycroft suggested. 

"No," Sherlock stood his ground, clutching the bowl to his chest.  "Where's my dog?"

Mycroft rubbed his hands over his face-his nervous habit.  "Sher, Redbeard. . ." he fell silent again.  "Redbeard is-"  He rubbed his hands over his face again.

Sherlock's eyes began to sting.  "You know Redbeard's been sick for a while, right?"  His eyes began to feel wet, and his vision got blurry.  "Well, I came home during lunch to check on him, and. . ."  He trailed off yet again, staring at his brother with apology in his eyes.

Tears fell down Sherlock's face in a steady stream.  His grip on the dog bowl got tighter as his mind started piecing together a puzzle he didn't want to solve.  "Myc. . . Myc, where's my dog?"

Mycroft inhaled sharply.  "I came home today to find Redbeard asleep on his bed; he didn't want to wake up." 

"But you promised me he was going to be okay!" Sherlock cried, now angry at his brother for lying to him.  "You said he probably just ate something that made him a little sick, you _promised_ , Myc, you _promised!"_

"I know I did, but that was when he didn't seem so unhealthy.  I thought he was going to be okay, but he started getting worse and. . ."  He stared at his crying brother, who was close to sobbing.  "I'm sorry, Sher." 

Sherlock stared at his feet; now his right shoe was untied.  He made no effort to tie it.  He sniffled, staring at the bowl still against his chest.  After a moment he pulled his cookie from his pocket.  "I brought it home for Redbeard," his voice was shaky, "do you want it?"

"No, that's alright."

"Here, take it," he insisted.

Mycroft sighed with a slight smile.  He took the cookie from Sherlock's hand.  "We'll split it," he decided, breaking the cookie in half.  He gave one half to Sherlock and kept the other. 

As they munched on the peanut butter cookies, Sherlock asked, "so where is he?"

"I took him down to the vet.  They took care of it."  Sherlock didn't want to ask what taking care of it meant; he knew there was more then one method of disposing of the dead. 

"It's not fair that dogs don't live as long as people," he sighed, finally setting down the bowl on the coffee table.  He wiped some of his tears off his face.

"I know, Sher.  It's not fair at all.  And though he may have been just part of your life, you were all of his.  And I'd like to say you gave him a pretty good life, you know?"


End file.
